Shadows
by Emily Waters
Summary: What if on *that night*, Lily had stepped aside?


**Title: **Shadows

**Author: **Emily Waters

**Pairing: **Lily/Snape

**Genre: **Angst, AU

**Summary: **What if on that night, Lily had stepped aside?

**Warnings: **OOC, angst.

**Shadows**

The shadows, begotten by threadbare furniture, and christened by the flames of the hearth, move and expand, appearing to have a life of their own. In the dusk of the old, shabby house, he sits, looking at the familiar silhouette near the window. There's barely any light – and he can't tell that her eyes are green, or her face - pale; though he can still discern the copper-red tinge of her hair.

She shivers slightly, but doesn't turn to face him. Her hands clutch at the window sill.

"Dumbledore said that you are the one who told Voldemort about the prophecy," she whispers.

"Yes," Severus says. He knows that he should be begging her forgiveness, trying to explain, trying to find the words that would somehow pierce the evening twilight... He doesn't. Words are nothing. Dumbledore is fond of saying that it is our choices that show what we truly are. What good are words, after a choice like that?

She nods.

"Albus siad you tried to save us... all of us," she says hesitantly. "Even Harry... even James."

He swallows hard. There's a lump in his throat.

She senses his hesitation.

"Did you?"

"I tried," he confirms listlessly.

_It is our choices that show us what we truly are. _But what good is choice, if you choose, try and fail?

She shudders slightly, as if in response to his unspoken words.

"What happened there?" Severus asks

Lily shakes her head.

"I don't remember."

~ * ~

Morning comes, misty and grey, with rain rapping against the window, thin ribbons of it spreading themselves on the glass, seeping through the decrepit window frame. The surface of the river is dark, almost black, the turbid waters carrying pieces of trash and tree branches to an uncertain final destination.

The familiar, slender silhouette in front of the window is still there. Her eyes are tightly shut. She looks paler than ever... Her hair seems strange – it's matted, messy, and red in a bloodless, lifeless way... like the autumn leaves that had began to rot.

"Are you hungry?" he dares to ask.

Her head sways slightly. No. She's not hungry.

"Did you get any sleep?"

She nods. And then, she asks a question of her own,

"He gave you to me, didn't he?"

He. Not even The Dark Lord. Just _he_. Gave her to him. Her. To him. The obscenity of the statement is almost too incongruous to acknoweldge verbally, but she's clearly expecting an answer, and he answers.

"Yes."

"What are you going to do with me?" There's no fear in her voice, or even any particular curiosity.

"Do with you? Nothing. I mean..." He stammers over his words, because suddenly he feels ridiculous and awkward. "I mean, you should probably contact your friends... have yourself checked out at St. Mungo's..."

She doesn't respond. She only turns her head slightly, and for a fleeting moment, glances at him. Her eyes are the color of wilting grass.

"Did they hurt you?" Severus asks.

Lily shakes her head, and he lets out a sigh of relief.

"Do you want me?" she asks.

He suddenly isn't sure what she is asking. There's a strange mixtrue of hesitation and indifference in her question – as if she's simply requesting a piece of information that she isn't certain she needs.

He answers her question with one of his own. The one he'd already asked before.

"What happened there?"

"I don't remember," she says. Her eyes shift slightly when she speaks. "Do you want me or not?"

His lips twist slightly to form a semblance of a smile. They say that it is our choices that show what we truly are.

"Don't worry. I won't – I mean... No. I don't."

But it's not a choice on his part. Or at least - it doesn't feel like a choice.

~ * ~

Evening comes, and the hearth begins to flicker once more. Shadows, reborn anew, proceed to weave their danse macabre on the aged wooden floor and the padded walls of the sitting room. The familiar silhouette of the stranger is still by the window, and she's still looking away, looking at something that only she can see.

"What happened there?" he asks.

She takes a deep breath.

"He... they entered the house. James was already dead when Vo – He reached the bedroom upstairs. Then, _he_ was in front of me... he looked at Harry... and he told me to step aside... or die. And..."

"You stepped aside," Severus says.

"Yes." She shivers slightly and clutches her hands together. "He killed Harry... just... killed him... and... then... that was it."

"You couldn't have done anything else," he points out. "It was a no-win scenario."

"I know that," she murmurs and looks at him. "You know... for a split second... I thought... of defying him. Just saying no. Just... stepping in, between him and Harry, I mean... maybe buy Harry another second or two of his life with my death..."

"And your child would have simply watched you die, before meeting his own end," Severus says ruthlessly. "It's best that he didn't. You've... made the right choice. The only choice."

And then, he remembers that old saying again: _it is our choices that show what we truly are_, and a small chill – icy like a trickle of rain – runs down his spine.

For a long time they are silent. Her eyes, listless and lifeless, carry the fading glow of the killing curse.

She looks away again, and he watches her, not recognizing her, and saying a silent goodbye to her... what he remembers of her. The woman he once knew wouldn't have been standing here, having a conversation with him, asking him what he intended to do with her. She would have spat in his face, and slammed the door, and left, without looking back.

More to the point, the woman he once knew wouldn't have stepped aside that night. Even wandless and wounded, she would have thrown herself at the monster who had tried to come after her child.

But she hand't.

She's made a choice to live, like he had hoped and prayed she would; but nonetheless, something died that night, and all that's left is a stranger's shadow in his home.

He wants to talk to her, talk to her about love, friendship, errors and choices – but when he opens his mouth, no words come. The silence is heavy, rife with unvoiced regrets, thick with memories that no longer feel real.

Eventually she speaks again.

"I think I'll stay one more night. Head out tomorrow. You don't mind, do you?"

The flames of the hearth flicker. The shadows dance.

He shakes his head. He doesn't mind.

What's one more shadow?

What's one less?

**~ fin**


End file.
